Creased
by AlienAgainstTheWorld
Summary: "Against the dark sky, she seemed paler than ever - paler than the thin white sheen of the bones which lined her wasted body, paler even than the paper which she used to weave with such aching accuracy." Itachi and Konan. Solitude and faith. Creative divergence from canon.
1. Chapter 1

I blame this on Sadistic Dreamkiller, and her story "Scorpio: Blood Saga". Its sheer awesomeness has inspired me to try some Konan-Itachi experiments of my own.

This is, well... this isn't an AU, to be exact. But all the characters are very much alive, even Sasori (who was the first Akatsuki member to perish). I can't specify the timeline, exactly. It just _is. _

Fair warning: This story will not follow the plot of Naruto. It is my, ah, _creative divergence _from canon.

Have fun!

* * *

Chapter 1 : Unfolding

_"Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy."_

_ - F. Scott Fitzgerald_

* * *

She is not alone.

She stumbles, falls, fades. There is no strength left in her body, all of it seeped out, sapped out by the energy that she had expanded in the past few days. She is all blood and bone, her heart having stilled, her mind having become lethargic. Her body collapses on itself, slowly pumping blood from the gaping hole in her abdomen, the sprays of red sluggishly spewing into the air with every gasp of breath. She is close to death.

She is not alone.

There is someone else in this abandoned house with her. She had managed to stumble back to hideout, borne by a wish to see Nagato – _Pain, she must call him Pain – _than anything else. She has resigned herself to death, and refuses to contemplate it. She only wished to see him one last time, to tell him that she was sorry that she had broken her promise, that she would be unable to be by her side because she would be dead.

And hopefully buried. She doesn't want her body to be manipulated, twisted and turned, nails driven into the soft recesses, inhabited by a consciousness that is not hers. It is unnatural. It should be buried, she should – finally, finally – be at peace.

She is not alone.

She collapses on the wooden floor, breathing shallowly, well aware of the blood that seeps into the ground every time she exhales. There is nothing else to do but wait. Pain is not here, Nagato is not here, Yahiko is gone. Deva – for that's who they are now – must be locked away in another coffin, blank eyes staring at the wood, waiting to be revived and reused. She is without them, without her family, without her wings. An angel no more; there is no one with her.

She is not alone.

Dimly, she registers the sound of footsteps dragging over the rough wood, scraping across the poor floor with a harsh grate. She closes her eyes, then opens them again. The world is bleary, blurring. She is bleeding too much, she realizes. She will die soon, without having accomplished what she set out to do. She has failed.

She is not alone.

There is someone above her now, she can just barely see a dark shape hovering nearby. Something reaches out to her… a hand? She is unsure, unclear, undecided. She wonders if she is hallucinating, if her mind has given out on her, given her a last respite in this strange world, made her believe that help is nearby when in reality she is the only living being for miles. She breathes in; she breathes out. She will not trust in her eyes, those faithless things.

The person above her breathes. "Konan-sama."

Immediately, she knows who it is. The instant recognition is probably because she has spent most of the last decade working with him, even though they have never come close. You begin to remember a person's voice after that. Especially if it is distinctive, as his is. She opens her mouth to be polite, to politely acknowledge him the way he has her, to follow the age-old customs that have been passed down from father to son, from mother to daughter. She is nothing if not polite.

She opens her mouth, and spews out blood, doubling over herself in the convulsions, violently hacking out the bright red liquid that had collected in a pool in her organs. Her lungs are punctured, she realizes. There really is no hope now, even if there ever was any. She lets go of any attempt to control her violent coughs, and focuses on the simple action of breathing.

A hand on her forehead. Immediately, she retreats into herself. She is not misanthropic, but she doesn't like being touched without express permission. This familiarity is unwarranted, denied. He is taking advantage of her being indisposed to approach her in a way which she would deem unacceptable on any other occasion. After having spent so much time together, she supposes that it might be considered natural to behave in such a manner, but she still feels uncomfortable, as though she has been violated in a way which is more psychological than physical, deeper, somehow.

She does not trust him.

She hears a sigh, and then he bends over her, almost pressing his lips into her ear, so close, in fact, that she can feel his breath fan out against her skin when he speaks. "Konan-sama," he enunciates clearly. "You are gravely wounded. I can heal this, but it will take some time. I would like to request that you stay up through the procedure, to tell me if everything seems alright."

She nods, and promptly faints.

* * *

When she comes to, she does not know where she is.

Briefly, she panics, heavy limbs thrashing about in the covers draped over her. The heat is almost oppressive, a coal brazier lighting up the small room in which she is lodged. Thick blankets – several of them – suffocate her, and she feels trapped under them.

Her mind screams, and she opens her mouth faithfully to obey, but her voice is gone, stolen away by fatigue and thirst. Her throat croaks, rasps, protests against this unfair treatment, and she feels as though the very skin is melting off her bones, leaving her in a pool of pale gore, soaking into the bed. The lighted coals blaze red, careless eyes watching her every move. She feels a great surge of terror.

"Nag –!"

But her body sews up her mouth before her body can progress to that level, clams it shut. Nagato doesn't exist anymore, and neither does his name. Both have faded, disappeared in the convoluted darkness of their combined past – now, only Pain exists, and he has commanded her to silence about who they used to be.

The door opens, and the palest sliver of light shines through. A ghostly hand holding a flickering lamp precedes its owner, and then Uchiha Itachi enters the room.

The Uchiha. She remembers now, sluggish memories dislodging themselves from the sludge of her fevered mind. He found her when she was dead.

_No. Not dead. Inconvenienced._

But if she was not taken by death then, would she surrender into its maws now? Her fragile umbrella of trust does not extend over the man who stands in front of her, and she is smart enough to know that even fully healed, she would be hard-pressed to beat him. Faded as she is now, she would probably die before she could even break a finger.

He approaches her almost cautiously, and if she had been completely lucid, she would have noticed his curiously careful behavior. As it is, she hangs on to consciousness by the barest thread of determination, and the only thing that catches her attention are his eyes. The Sharingan blares in the darkness, bright as any red-tipped coal. She averts her eyes, terrified of the realm that she might inadvertently pay a visit to.

"Konan-sama." In sharp contrast to her gravel, his voice is honey, flowing smoothly through the cracks and pouring itself into every crevice. She clutches her hands to discourage any instinctive flailing. Even discomposed as she is, a shred of dignity remains within her, despite all semblance of authority having left her being.

She raises her eyes coolly, almost defiantly, and stares into his Sharingan, her spine tense at the thought of what might happen. Her parched tongue longs to smooth itself over cracked lips, but she controls herself, and attempts to modulate her voice, an endeavour upon which she fails. "Uchiha." The sound of rusted nails upon scratchy wood.

She is overcome by a fit of desperate coughs, and she sullenly succumbs, well aware of the rather pathetic figure that she made in front of a man who was by all rights and reasons her subordinate. Shame spreads over her, hot and humid, at the thought of the spectacle must be, but there are more pressing things on hand. Dimly, she observes that he had extended one large, tanned hand to her. The fingers are long and slender, and one of them sports a colourful ring with a warped symbol engraved upon it. They are wrapped around a glass tumbler filled with a colourless liquid.

_Water_.

Almost before she knows what she is doing, her hands have reached out desperately, her thoughts turning into thick sludge as the presence of the life-giving liquid registers. She grabs the tumbler – there really isn't any other way to describe it – and practically throws its content into her mouth. Immediately, she chokes, coughing violently and drenching her clothes, streams of liquid pouring out of her nostrils, burning the sensitive tissue.

Her head is tipped back, and a large hand opens her mouth and regulates the stream, holding her chin open. She gratefully accepts this, choosing to ignore for the moment that she is behaving and being treated like a child. Vaguely, her body remembers being similarly pampered when she was still just Konan, just another barefoot girl in the woods, before the world cleaved apart and she transformed into an Angel.

The commoner in her chafes at his patient treatment, and she is almost painfully aware of the fact that the upbringing that he had had would have never allowed him to behave as such, no matter what the situation may be. Her pride – that fierce knowledge of being utterly plebian – disdains the careful treatment that he showers on her, even at it cringes at her apparent and absolute helplessness.

_So what_, she glowers sullenly, choosing to brutally suppress any gratitude that may have blossomed in her. Plebian and patrician they may be, but both share the same boat. They're floating down a river of uncertainty, choosing to believe in their guide. Only she is aware of the fact that the boatman is actually blind, his eyes closed behind a veil of righteous immorality.

He sits by the side of her bed when he is done feeding her – her temper flares at the mental image the phrase conjures – and calloused fingers pick at a loose thread on the multi-patterned bedspread. She would have retreated from her presence, closeted herself in the bubble which she wore like an armour, if she wasn't afraid of falling off the narrow bed. The façade of politeness which she had cultivated has been swallowed up by the extenuating circumstances surrounding her situation.

He looks up from beneath his eyelashes, chancing a look, and she is struck – not for the first time – by how very _pretty _he is. Out of the eight of them – nine, if you include Tobi – he is undoubtedly the most attractive, the one most likely to draw attention due to his extreme good looks. The others are more likely to fade into the background, just a few more misfits in this stitched-up world.

Because Konan is a kuniochi and not a girl, she convinces herself that it is better for her to be plain anyway. Kuniochi do not look pretty. They fight to accomplish, and sometimes accomplishment is easier when you're just another person fading into the background. Good looks can be a curse for all the attention that they draw.

He addresses her directly, drawing her sharply back to reality. "Konan-sama, you have several lesions upon your torso." As always, he is direct, seamless voice flowing mellifluously as he clips out his observations. "Many of your internal organs were damaged with highly potent chakra, and the invasive energy that seeped through the wounds seems to have eaten away at some of your organs at an astonishing rate. The attack was also highly centralized, and was aimed at your vital points. It is a highly specialized job for any healer, and I simply do not have the required skills."

She stares at her own clenched fist, vaguely realizing that the very fact that her body is tense would be enough to tip him off about her general discomfort when he is near. _Never mind. _They are not here to be friendly.

He raises his eyes – those fearsome Uchiha eyes, patterns within patterns, a kaleidoscope of beautiful horror, and says: "I am afraid that some of the work was simply beyond the scope of what I could do."

Until that moment, she had been unaware of the fact that she was fidgeting. She stills as she listens to his words pouring out, and instead of filling her crevices, he seems to create new ones, each new drop causing another chink in her armour. Her hands fist into the lowermost quilt, and her forehead furrows. She senses enough to know that his strange and detached manner does not bode well for her.

She does not speak, but merely waits for him to finish his statement.

He lets out a breath which is really more a sigh. "Your chakra pathways were affected. Your center of chakra – it was almost torn to pieces –"

But before he can finish, her hands are frantically working, sliding down to the flat plane of her stomach, rigid now, with stitches and scars low ridges across the flat terrain. She presses the palm of her hand against her navel – her center of gravity – and presses, hard.

Pain. Excruciating pain, burning through her abdomen. Vaguely, she thinks she can feel something rupture, new stitches give away against her assault, but her concentration is centered on what is _not_ rather than what is.

"Oh," she says limply, because what else is there to say. The white hot burn of chakra is missing from her veins – nothing but blood pounding through the webs interconnecting her body. The only power she can feel are the faint traces of something that doesn't belong to her, something that has been inserted.

"Oh," she says again, and then realizes that she is in shock. Her jaw is clenched, and her fingers are shaking. Her entire body seems to be coming apart, the head detaching from the torso, her toes dropping off one by one. She is overcome by violent tremors.

Immediately, a hand seizes her and shakes her roughly. She can feel the presence of his chakra, the blue ichor which pounds through his veins. It lies under the surface of his skin, tense, prepared to defend, to protect, to attack. It is what marks him as a shinobi, this wild chakra of his.

Her mouth rips itself open, and then she is shrieking, screaming, an unholy sound emanating from a place she didn't even know existed. The wind – and she seems to be made of nothing but wind, the chaotic storm that is her mind – bursts out of her, tearing apart her vocal cords, bleeding into the air, the sound of a wild, crazed animal.

She is thrashing now, fighting against these covers that seal her in, twisted limbs, feverish with exhaustion, pounding against the soft cloth as though to be able to beat them would enable her to awake from this nightmare. The bed groans feebly against her efforts, but continues to hold her within, to cage her. She is frantic.

His hands – those damnable hands – hold her down, press her against the bed. She can sense his restraint, that he is very actively choosing to subdue her through sheer physical power rather than any enhanced by the abilities resting inside him, and the realization that he has what she has lost sets her off again. She screams until she can feel her throat caked with blood, and then her voice stops, and she is gone, lost within herself.


	2. Chapter 2

I thought long and hard about posting this, because now I'm without any buffer chapter, but then decided, what the hell? ;)

Enjoy! Also, the next chapter might take a while to come.

* * *

Chapter 2 – Taut

"_I have a very strong feeling that the opposite of love is not hate – it's apathy. It's not giving a damn."_

– _Leo Buscaglia._

There was blood around her mouth.

She must have coughed it up during the night. She was still asleep, her chest rising and falling in uneasy slumber. Her eyes flickered beneath their lids, and she clutched the covers tightly in her hands, crushing them between her fists.

He bent over her, careful not to wake her, observing her expressionlessly. His ringed eyes transmitted whatever they saw to the original, and ensured that He was aware of everything.

Deva arose. "How long?"

Behind him, another unusual pair of eyes stared at the scene. Uchiha Itachi blinked slowly, his eyes flickering between the man he knew as Leader and his slumbering partner. "She hasn't awoken apart from to eat and drink a little," he concluded, shifting restlessly. "A medic is urgently needed, Leader-sama."

He watched his leader carefully. The man was an enigma, and he wasn't sure if there was just one of him. He possessed the Rinnegan, he was sure – as a child in Konoha, he had often heard lore about the legendary many-ringed eyes. But more than that, he seemed to _know _everything. Itachi had never fought against him, but even he could sense that their Leader wasn't an opponent he could win against.

Deva turned to face the woman once again. Her dark hair was splayed out against the white pillow, and in her sleep, she looked fragile and innocent, years of pressure and tension erased from her brow. A week ago, this would have been a misconception, for she had been one of the deadliest shinobi in the world. Now, she was helpless.

"Kakuzu will visit in a few days. Let him have a look at her." The masked nin was the only one amongst them even slightly skilled in medical ninjutsu. "I'll be back in a few hours, when she wakes." He nodded curtly, then walked out of the door.

Deva stopped, bright hair gleaming in the moonlight. "One last thing." He turned to face his subordinate, strange eyes glowing in an even stranger face. "Don't let them kill her."

Then he left, and Itachi was left to ponder the meaning of his words.

* * *

He sat down heavily, his body fairly collapsing on itself. He had overexerted himself these past few days, and his fragile body, already ravaged by illness, couldn't handle the stress. Some days, it felt like he was moving on sheer willpower alone.

He hadn't asked for this. He had been on just another round of all their regular hideouts while Kisame went to finish off some personal business. It had been pure chance that he had encountered Konan when he had.

There was no doubt that she would have died without immediate intervention. Healing wasn't one of his strong suits, but what little he did know had sufficed to save her life. Her injuries had been far too serious for her to survive much longer on her own.

He had saved her life, but he hadn't been able to save her. Her center of chakra had been almost completely destroyed. It was quite obvious that she had gone up against a strong enemy, and had suffered the brutal consequences. The extent of the damage made him suspect her opponent of sadism – shinobi generally tried to give their counterparts as quick a death as they could.

But Konan wasn't just any shinobi. She was the vice-leader of Akatsuki, Leader-sama's partner. But she didn't have any real authority. He had never see her fight, but he knew that her jutsu was paper. The common opinion amongst the members of Akatsuki was that she was vice-leader because she was fucking Leader-sama.

Fuck. What a crude word. He probably would have never encountered it, what with the sheltered upbringing usually afforded to heirs of Noble Clans. But he hadn't grown up in the most normal circumstances, unless you counted a thirteen year-old boy leading a death squad as normal, which, come to think of it, most of Akatsuki probably did.

He wasn't a fool. He knew that she probably wouldn't be able to utilize chakra ever again. Whoever had attacked her had left some of their own chakra inside her body. Even now, it was eating away at her organs, slowly decimating the soft flesh. He could heal flesh wounds, but he couldn't draw out chakra. Kakuzu may be able to stop it, but he didn't have the required skills to regenerate what was already lost. The only person currently alive who could do that was the Hokage, Tsunade Senju, and he didn't see her helping them any time soon.

In other words, Konan would never be a kuniochi again.

He sank deeper into his chair, staring at her through baleful eyes. Sick as she was, after that first outburst, she had not had the energy to do more than swallow her food, and even that was fast diminishing. If this kept up, she would be dead in two weeks.

He resented the responsibility suddenly placed on him. He would be the first to admit that he didn't know much about the other members of the Akatsuki, but even he could recognize that the blue-haired kuniochi and their leader were fairly close. Kisame had a pool on whether they were fucking, and so far there were no takers. It seemed fairly obvious that a deeper relationship existed between them, past the superficial ties of superior and subordinate. When Pain had shown up at his door, responding to the urgent summons he had sent, he had expected to be freed of his caretaking duties, to go back to his usual routine while Leader did whatever he wanted with his girlfriend.

Instead, he found himself saddled with more responsibilities. It was clear that Pain expected him to stay here until Kakuzu reached here, as well. If there was any judging his cryptic words, he expected them to be under attack, too, possibly by whoever had attacked Konan. He was stuck here, and it angered him. He had other things to do. His brother was still under the Snake's influence. He had to plot how to free Sasuke from Orochimaru.

She turned in the bed, and he could see that she was red. Very red. She probably had a fever. He sighed, and stood, feeling his back creak in protest. Fetching another cool compress, he draped it over her sweaty forehead, taking her in at the same time.

When he had healed her, he had to undress her. He had no idea if Pain would take it as some kind of insult or affront, that he had seen Konan. Truth be told, he hadn't really focused on much apart from the gaping holes on her torso. When there was gore everywhere, you tended not to focus on the shape of a woman's body.

Her face was unusual. He had grown up in sunny, tropical Konoha, where the women were tanned and toned, often with either lustrous dark hair or glowing golden strands. Konan had an unhealthy complexion, so pale that she could almost have been the paper she used. Her hair was blue at the roots, and even her eyelashes had the same strange tint. He couldn't see her eyes, but he knew they were grey. Her lips were grey, too, now, or perhaps a very pale pink. The glint of metal was the only colour in her face. All through, she looked pale and washed up, almost gaunt.

Sasori had once told him that their cloaks bore red clouds because their two leaders were from Amegakure. That would explain her pale complexion – it looked like she hadn't seen much sun in her life. Vaguely, he remembered that she tended to avoid the sun like a vampire, and wondered if she burnt easily. He tried picturing her with a peeling nose, and couldn't.

He leaned back, frustrated. It didn't suit his nature to stay cooped up like this. It was making him think strange thoughts. What did he care what their leader's girlfriend looked like? Konan had always been unfailingly polite to him, it was true, but the same could be said of Sasori. Moreover, she was cool; detached, even. He had no delusions as to any warmth existing between them.

And yet… it was strange, but he found that he didn't want her to die. It wasn't because of some basic altruism, some basic aversion to a person dying. As a shinobi, he had killed many, and had nearly been killed in return. He had no particular fondness for life. And more than not wanting to die, he wanted her to actively _recover. _It didn't make sense, because he didn't know her, and she was practically nobody to him.

Something Tobi had once said flashed into his mind. Madara's disguise was capable of fooling the others, but he saw right through it. Nevertheless, the first Uchiha enjoyed getting into character, and often spouted witticisms and adages.

"'_Cause we're all just one big happy family, ain't we?!"_

He could sense the irony in his voice, but the others took him at face value. Deidara had even conked him on the head, telling him to keep his mouth shut. It had seemed ridiculous at the time. They were all a bunch of hired killers, working together to actively end the world. Such things weren't character-building.

It was still ridiculous. He didn't care about any of them. If someone actively tried to kill Kisame tomorrow, he would probably try to stop them, but only because losing Kisame meant that he would have to deal with someone more annoying. If someone actively tried to kill Hidan the next day, he would let them, because the man was immortal and because he didn't care. If someone actively tried to kill Sasori tomorrow, he would try to stop them, but only because Sasori was a fairly valuable ally who could one day become useful.

But Konan was weaker than they were. Moreover, she was loyal only to Pain. He had no use for her whatsoever.

Shisui's voice popped up in his head. He often felt like his dead best friend's spirit lived within him, despite knowing about that it was impossible. Maybe it was because of the Eye.

"_You're developing a mothering instinct, Uchiha._"

Instinctively, he touched her hand. She twisted away, and continued sleeping.

* * *

Her dreams were full of darkness. Gore, blood, death. She is reliving the slaughter of Hanzo. His family, sliced to shreds, all because of the misdeeds of their patriarch. Even the servants weren't spared. Nagato insisted that it wasn't vengeance that he was exacting. He was simply creating a New World Order, and there was no place for these poor souls in it.

They were interwoven with scenes from her childhood. Starving to death in an alley. Thinking that she would die. Watching vultures circling above her, and knowing what they were waiting for. She had been so frightened of mutilation. The idea of being _eaten _was perhaps more frightening than death itself.

"_Let's just kill them. War orphans will never survive in this world."_

In reality, Konan couldn't remember whether the words were uttered with a serpentine hiss or not. Cluttered as her mind had become, she chose to suppress that one memory in favour of thousands of other, better ones. As all monsters do, however, it merely lurked under the surface during the day, appearing without fail each night.

Her nights are full of the living dead. She wonders if they have begun to live in her mind now. Yahiko. All the other members of the original Akatsuki, who died fighting for Amegakure's freedom. Even little Chibi, Nagato's dog. She often finds herself missing it, despite the fact that they kept many pets at their little cabin in the woods after that. She had a special connection to the dog. If it wasn't for the dog, she wouldn't have met Nagato, wouldn't have known him.

She has nightmares every night, but sometimes they are interwoven with good memories. Memories of warmth and cider, and of a perverted Jiraiya reading amorous novels while Yahiko screeched in his ear. Memories of Nagato holding her hand as they walked through the woods in search of acorns. Memories of staring at the sky, on one of those few days when it was clear and there wasn't a cloud to be seen for miles. She doesn't like the rain, but she doesn't mind it, either. Somehow, she's always felt naked if grey clouds weren't shrouding the world.

Tonight isn't one of those nights. Everyone is dead. Jiraiya is dead to them, and may even be dead to the world. Yahiko's body may be alive, but he had definitely passed on from this world. And Nagato had faded into himself, allowed Pain to take over, until nothing of him was left.

She wonders if she, too, would die, and wishes for it. She made a promise to Nagato, that she would be with him all her life, but Nagato is dead, and she should be, too. It's the only way she knows how to free herself.

She wakes with a startle, and is disconcerted for a moment. Her body aches, and she feels strangely hollow. The crudely stitched-up wound on her midsection burns with red-hot fire, and she winces. Her stomach aches. She is hungry. Her throat rasps for water.

A hand is at her chin, tilting her head back. She feels the cool liquid being poured down her throat. She hates it, hates this helplessness, hates being fed as though she is a child. Each time the same ritual is performed, she thinks she might die a little more inside. Her fevered brain burns with anger, her tongue burns with thirst.

She chokes down a little gruel, steadfastly keeping her eyes averted so that she wouldn't have to see _him. _Uchiha Itachi. It is his hands, ornamented with a small ring, that are feeding her now, his hands that are wielding the napkin wiping her chin. Her shame could drown her, its vast oceanic depths smother her within them.

She wonders why he is still around. She hasn't kept track of the time, but it must have been several days now, many nights since when she first stumbled in, covered with blood and holding her guts in with one hand. They don't have any particular connection, so she wonders why he is taking care of her, why he is ensuring that she stays alive. Perhaps, she thinks, it is to gain Pain's favour.

A futile endeavour. Pain favours none, not even her. She would have already been dead, would have perished against the power of the Six Paths of Pain, had it not been for Nagato, who still existed somewhere in the body that was now Pain's. Nagato may have been dead, but his legacy and love for her kept her alive.

Because she has just woken up, and because she is suffering from brain fever, her thoughts are discordant, rambling. She knows that she is ill – she can feel it in her bones, in the weakness that seems to pervade every cell, every worn tissue. Her illness is making her hallucinate. She spies a gigantic black worm emerging from the ceiling, and flinches away, burrowing in the warmth he has draped over her. Earlier, she found the heat oppressive – now, she finds it barely sufficient.

A shadow darkens the doorway, and she glances up, out of morbid curiosity. Itachi still looms above her, so someone else must be there. She wonders if it is Kisame, if the blue-skinned giant is also a party to her humiliation.

Flaming orange hair. _Yahiko._

The name chokes out of her, blows past her sore throat and worn tongue, blasts out of her bruised lips, to burst into the room and loom there, stay suspended in the air. Its three syllables – Ya-hi-ko – reverberate again and again, seemingly endowing the small, dank space with resonance.

Pain steps forward, and she realizes what she has done.

She cowers under the bedcovers, flinching away from his purple eyes and expressionless face. She can sense the Uchiha's curiosity, feel the cogs in his clever brain turning round and round as he tries to make sense of her statement. This is the first time that anyone from Akatsuki has heard the name.

Pain would be furious, his anger simmering like liquid heat under his skin. She trembles and hates herself for doing it. Over the years, despite the fear that she often feels whenever he is near, she has trained herself to be still and accepting whenever near Nagato or one of his bodies. She knows how he fears being left alone, and she does all that she can to assure him that she will never leave him.

Nagato still exists, somewhere in the recesses of Pain's mind. Nagato, the human boy whose hand she often held, owner of Chibi, blood brother to her. Her heart is divided into two parts, and he claims one of them. Somewhere within Pain-who-is-Nagato exists a spark of insecurity, which crushes him every day. Nagato is terrified of being alone, terrified that she will leave him. She has just accentuated his fears.

She does not care. She is tired and ill and frightened. Saying _his _name is an unpardonable offense. Nagato encourages Pain, tolerates Deva. He doesn't appreciate the fact that she separates the seven of them, that she calls one of them Deva. He doesn't know the effort that it takes her not to use Yahiko's name.

His anger would overcome her if it came, but it never comes. Rather, Deva seems expressionless as usual, his features bland against the piercings that mar his body. It is as though he is trying to will The Name out of existence.

Too bad. Uchiha Itachi is not one who would easily let these things go. Fortunately, he isn't one who would spread it around, either.

Deva steps forward and surveys her. "Konan," and his voice is toneless. "Who injured you?"

She blinks. No 'are you well?' or 'do you hurt?'. She understands that Nagato's all-seeing eyes perceive more than hers do, that he probably already knows her physical state. Nevertheless, she is upset. Sometimes, she feels as though Nagato cares more for the promise than he does her. _'Protect her.' _Nagato protects her, but he does not live with her.

She turns her mind to her assailant, and immediately, her body chokes up in fear, the long cords of her muscles tightening with terror. Even here, when she knows that Deva will protect her, the memory of her assault leaves her dizzy and nauseous. The knowledge that one is completely helpless, despite all of one's power, is not something that can easily be absorbed. For Konan, it is beginning to haunt her.

The name slips out of her, softer than a whisper. The two men in the room have to strain their senses to pick up the word, which she almost mouths, as though saying it out loud would summon the creature.

"_Orochimaru."_

Some day, when she is well, she will try to rifle through her memories of that fateful day, and maybe she will succeed. Today, she is far too traumatized for it.

Yahiko's face – Deva's, now – is still expressionless, a clean slate, something that was impossible for Yahiko to achieve. She knows that her childhood friend doesn't exist anymore inside, that only his memory remains, but she can't help but hope. Hope is fundamental, intrinsic. She can't get over him, not when his body stands so close to her, and speaks as though it is alive and not reanimated.

Pain turns and says something to the Uchiha, but she can't catch what it is because she is losing consciousness faat it is because she is fast void of any emotion. The only thing she is aware of is the fact that he is leaving. Automatically, her hand stretches out, elongates, the fingers grasping futilely. Even such a simple motion involves so much effort that she is left gasping.

"Deva…" she murmurs, conscious of her earlier error, and then bites her tongue. Two blunders in one day. Nagato will not forgive this. He tolerates Deva, but only when they are alone. With Akatsuki, he is only just Pain.

"Pain," she tries again, desperation coating the word. "_Stay. _Please."

She is begging him, but her strenuous words roll off him like water off a duck's back. Pain is unconcerned with worldly matters, and her needs feature nowhere on his list. As long as she is alive, Nagato is content, and Pain is satisfied. Her state of mind does not come under his criterion for well-being.

"Itachi will watch over you." She would have accepted even coldness, even a sign which said that he was disappointed with her behavior, with her slips. She knows better than to expect affection. But the sheer apathy coating every word makes her feel as though she is shriveling inside, and wrenches a dry, soundless sob from her. "When you are well, ask him to escort you to headquarters."

Then he is gone. And she knows that he will not return.


	3. Chapter 3

I want to thank Puppetieran, an anonymous reviewer, who wrote an absolutely lovely review. Thank you so very much. You inspired me to pick up my laptop and start writing again. I finished two drafts of this chapter on the very same day! Hah.

I'm trying to move the plot along as quickly as I can, but there are certain situations which I feel are absolutely essential for the story to be stitched together effectively. Bear with me. :)

* * *

Chapter 3: Patterned

_"I am careful not to confuse excellence with perfection. Excellence, I can reach for; perfection is God's business."_

_ - Michael J. Fox_

Medical ninjutsu is a difficult, exact art, which requires the application of not only universally accepted scientific principles, but also the necessary talent required to implement them. The balance of chakra required in order to successfully heal is not easy to achieve, and many great shinobi in history have proven to be completely and utterly incompetent in the art of healing. Great healers are rare, and often revered among their colleagues. Only a healer can understand the effort and the precision required to truly heal, rather than just repair.

Over the many years that he has been alive, he has studied under some healers, and stolen the techniques of several more. Nevertheless, Kakuzu has no delusions about the level of his ability. He is fairly proficient, more so than any other member of Akatsuki, but this level of damage is beyond him.

He looks up from the inspection of the wound to find his vice-leader's pale grey eyes trained on him. Unwilling to mince words, he delivers his diagnosis with only the element of bluntness to spice it: "It looks bad."

She flinches, and it is visible to the naked eye, despite all her attempts at hiding it. He curses his lack of tact, because although straightforwardness may be appreciated in some circles, this is not one of those situations. Moreover, his 'patient' is not some fat, rich warlord, and neither is it Hidan, whose immortality rendered him particularly susceptible to insults. To wound the sensibilities of the woman whom he is treating can lead to instant death, or so he believes.

He mourns his bad luck. There are certain situations he attempts to avoid, despite his qualified membership in what could arguably be called the world's most dangerous organisation, because of the sheer fallouts. He tries to avoid fights against enemies whom he recognizes as being particularly strong, does not antagonize the other members of the Akatsuki, particularly Sasori. He only battles a strong enemy when Hidan is unable to defeat him with his sheer brute strength. He does this because he knows the value of life, and also knows that a single misstep can cost him heavily.

To become embroiled in this issue was not something that he would have wished to happen. He generally tries to avoid both the Leader and his partner, because one is strong and the other has a strong ally. In this situation, where he is the medic, her life lies in his hands. He knows what is at stake. If anything happens to her, then Pain will hold him personally responsible, and he may suffer a short and rather tragic end.

He ignores her unhealthily pale face and focuses on the task at hand, sending little probing strings of chakra through the wound, trying to sense the exact cause of the infection. The problems he is facing are manifold. Firstly, he is unused to the delicate conditions with which he is working. Lately, his healing skills have only been called into play whenever Hidan suffers another death, and he does not bother to be careful with his silver-haired partner. Any pain that Hidan might suffer through will cease to exist the moment his body is sewn back together, something that may not happen with the fragile body that he was currently working with. Moreover, the wound he was probing had already been stitched-up once, and he would be the first to admit that it was not the finest work he had ever seen. The stitches were tacked and uncomfortably sewn, and as a result the effect was somewhat contorted, making the task harder than it already was.

Being summoned by Pain was an uncommon occurrence from him, and although he had been told earlier to go and heal other members of the Akatsuki, he had never had the opportunity to utilize his skills with either the Leader or his partner. The unfamiliarity of the pattern made him slightly hostile, and the knowledge that he could suffer for any discomfort she may feel made him even more detached. He had never been one for a warm bedside manner any way.

Stupid woman. _She's going to get me killed_.

He withdrew his chakra from her body, having already discerned the exact place where the problem lay, and pinched the bridge of his nose in an exhausted manner. The psychological and very real fears that lay behind his reluctance for this particular project were not aiding him in his attempt to assess the problem. He would have to perform surgery, manually open her body and cleave through it in search for the root of the problem, the little grain of foreign chakra that continued to destroy her tissues, and which had left her in a state so close to death.

He chanced a look at his patient. She had closed her eyes, and thin blue veins showed up through her pale skin. Deep, dark circles carved a path below her eyes, and her mouth was almost bloodless, a thin, pinched line. She was sweating profusely, despite the fact that she was cold to the touch. Each breath she took evidently required quite an effort.

She was not asleep. Her breaths were uneven, and her body too tightly wound up for her to have drifted off to the land of slumber in the middle of his inspection. Nevertheless, it was useless trying to explain the situation to her. The Uchiha had already informed him that she seemed to have lost the necessary energy required for speaking a few days before he had arrived. Now, she communicated through hand-signals, or, if that was too taxing, then through her pale grey eyes, which followed the Uchiha around everywhere.

He withdrew from the room, careful to make the slightest bit of noise so that she would be aware of his retreat. Stepping firmly on the ground, his cloak rustling about him, he moved about the house, trying to find his other comrade.

He found Uchiha Itachi in the kitchen, preparing what looked like broth. Eyeing the concoction warily, he chose to be blunt again, and blurted it out: "She needs surgery."

The words lay between them, tense, and heavy with the possible implications. Itachi turned and regarded him with wary black eyes, his right hand clutched into a tight fist, the left loose and relaxed. "Have you assessed the problem?" His voice was cool, modulated.

In comparison, his own seemed to grate against the walls of the paltry house. "Like you said, there's some invasive chakra. In order to accurately assess the extent of the damage, and to remove the chakra, I'll need to take a direct look."

The younger man began to fuss around the kitchen, wiping down the stained counter with a remarkably clean washcloth. He had always been cleaner and neater than his colleagues, almost obsessively so, perhaps as a result of his pristine upbringing. "I have already informed you about the discoveries that I made while working at Konan-sama's wounds." His voice was wary, as though he was unsure of whether or not to trust Kakuzu. The latter didn't mind. He felt the same way.

He scoffed. "Do not compare your paltry 'data' with my needs, Uchiha," he said, in a brief moment of flippancy. Then his tone became serious again. "It's spread, as I'm sure you know. I need to be sure of where it is, and to extract it manually if needed. Of course, Orochimaru's handiwork requires special attention. It has the ability of morphing completely."

Itachi finished wiping the table and threw the dirty rag into the sink, suddenly seeming engrossed with his own thoughts. Kakuzu observed him warily. Despite their so-called association, he had no doubts whatsoever about the true spirit that existed within the Akatsuki. Uchiha Itachi was no friend of his, and neither was the pale, wasted woman he had just left in bed.

Finally, Itachi turned to regard him, and it was with some unease that he noted that the Sharingan had been activated, the black tomoe spinning around in an endless whirlwind of power. Nevertheless, he kept his gaze trained squarely at the Uchiha's face, staring the man in the eye, trying to communicate the urgency of the situation.

_I don't want to die, Uchiha._

Finally, Itachi broke eye contact, seemingly having accomplished whatever it was that he set out to do. "Leader-sama gave me the responsibility of caring for Konan-sama while she is… indisposed." The slight curve to his lips was the only inclination that he, too, could see the black humour in the situation. "He also told me that I was not to let her die."

Red eyes snapped up to meet brown, and Kakuzu could feel the intensity of the stare, as though spotlights had suddenly been turned on. Beads of sweat began to trail down the back of his neck. He attempted a chuckle, but came out instead sounded like half a whimper. "Don't worry, Uchiha. I don't want to die, either."

* * *

He exited the house with a barely concealed expression of relief. The intensity contained within the slats of the small wooden house had proven too much to bear, and he was glad to be out of it, even if for just a little while.

He had fed Konan again, slipped the spoon containing the warm broth through her unresponsive lips, waited until he could hear her noisily swallow before withdrawing it. It was a time-consuming and frustrating task. Konan seemed to be barely be alive anymore, and he was the one who had to help her perform all the basic, menial tasks which the human body required in order to live. He fed her, forced water down her throat, changed her clothes. He did all the things he had done for his own brother, and then some more. Her illness did not prevent her frail body from releasing wastes.

He grimaced slightly, massively uncomfortable with the situation that he found himself in. He barely knew Konan, and yet, today, he was the only thing keeping her alive. The sheer proximity of her whenever he was taking care of her – whenever he changed her clothes, dipped a clean cloth in a bowl of cool water, and glided it across her scarred skin – was too intense, too _much_ for him to handle. By nature, he was detached. He did not appreciate this sudden and forcible attachment that he had been forced to cultivate.

The garden was his only solace. The tiny, fenced area in front of the shabby wooden cabin where they resided for the present was surrounded on all sides by great, leafy trees that reminded him of the verdant ones found near his ancestral home. The Land of Fire was known for its vegetation, and standing here, in this forest, reminded him of many an afternoon spent training with Shisui among the thick foliage. It was a memory of a better time, a lighter time.

His thoughts soon left his childhood and instead turned to Pain. The orange-haired man had disappeared after instructing Itachi to guard and serve his partner, and told him to wait for Kakuzu. It was clear that the man expected him to stay here until Konan was fully recovered and could be moved to the headquarters. There was no doubt whatsoever that it would take several weeks for her to recover any semblance of normalcy, and then a few more for her to be ready to travel. He would be stuck here for a while.

If he was a lesser man, he would grind his teeth in frustration. As it was, he merely sighed, attempting to blow out all of the troubles that plagued his mind. The circumstances surrounding the situation were too strange for him to do anything else.

Orochimaru had attacked Konan. Seeing that she had been travelling alone, and unexpectedly, at that, it was either a chance encounter, or an extremely calculated attack. Knowing Orochimaru, and seeing the severity of her wounds, it was clear that it had been the latter. Konan had been taken by surprise, and moreover, had been unable to recover her senses during the battle. It was probable that she had had to face more than one enemy.

He longed to interrogate her about these affairs. Orochimaru was, and had been for quite a long period of time, his enemy. The abduction and subsequent brainwashing of his younger brother had only served to fan the flames of hatred that blossomed between the two. If there was something that he wanted to accomplish before losing his eyesight entirely, it was to kill the Snake sannin and to expose Madara.

But he had proven to be elusive. Orochimaru guarded his location jealously, and Itachi had tried, and failed to locate him, despite repeated attempts and copious bribes. He knew that in a fight between the two, it was likely that he would emerge the winner, and thus, pursued the other man relentlessly, just as the Snake displayed its virile ability to dodge his various attempts. Orochimaru had too much at stake – especially Sasuke – to chance losing all of it now. He preferred to hide rather than to expose himself and make himself vulnerable.

So then why had he revealed his location to Konan? The situation seemed improbable. It was highly likely that the sannin had been unaware of the fact that Itachi was nearby, as he had travelled without informing anyone, but to attack and to grievously injure a member of Akatsuki, especially one who was so close to the Leader, invited nothing but repercussions. Orochimaru was no fool. He had been a member of Akatsuki himself, and had witnessed the strange relationship between their Leader and his partner. So far, Pain had chosen to leave him alone, dismissing him as being inconsequential to the overall development of their plans. After such a slight, Pain could not afford to ignore him any longer, and even Orochimaru was unaware of the exact extent of their Leader's powers. Why would he choose to make such an enemy?

So many questions shifted about restlessly in his brilliant mind, but he could find no solution to them. If Konan had been awake, then he would have hurled question after question at her in order to glean all that he could. As it was, she had refused to speak at all after Pain had left.

The visit had been stranger than he had expected. Unlike most, Itachi chose to veer away from the topic of their Leader's past, recognizing the sensitivity of the topic, and the possible repercussions that could follow. Nevertheless, the conversation that he had witnessed between Akatsuki's two most mysterious members had served to do nothing but excite his curiosity. He found himself blindingly obsessive about the obvious slip-ups that Konan had made in her delirium.

She had let slip two words, which were most likely names, _'Yahiko'_ and _'Deva'_. She had reached out for her partner when she uttered the latter, so he could only assume that she was referring to Pain. Why had she changed his name? Was that his real name? And who was Yahiko? Pain's lack of reaction to the words had somewhat hampered his ability to discern their meaning, but Konan's obvious distress at having committed a mistake was imprinted on his mind. Clearly, there was more to the situation.

It is difficult to be confronted with one who is more powerful than you, and there was no doubt in his mind whatsoever about the fact that if there was a fight between him and the Leader, then he would not emerge alive from it, unless he did so at the latter's grace. The Sharingan was a valuable tool, but even it could not compete against the original prototype, the Rinnegan. The legends surrounding the mutation were many, and there was little scientific data was to be found, since it had but one user. The Sage of Six Paths had been the first and last to walk on this world with it.

He had avoided Pain, and by association, Konan. He had no wish to get into any trouble with either of them. Often, he had wondered if Pain was aware of the existence of Madara, something which he had deemed implausible, but the man seemed to be omnipresent. The First Uchiha was the only one who could even dream of opposing the Leader of the Akatsuki, and even he seemed to be lying low, waiting for a chance.

A brief movement in the corner of his eyes caught his attention. Nearby, a parrot flew from one branch of a silver maple to another, its wings briefly caught in the scarce sunlight.

His blood ran cold. Parrots were tropical creatures, and this area may have been wooded, but it was still very far from their natural habitat. Swift as a jaguar, he moved, and had caught it before the mechanical implement had a chance to even realize that it had been detected.

His fingers, slim and aristocratic, crushed down on its thin, metallic wings, twisting apart the machine's neck before it had a chance to detonate or release a toxin. Shredding the feathers with one hand, he raised the implement to eye level, studying it carefully.

A small black symbol adorned the bottom of one metallic wing. He unwrapped his fingers slowly, studying the object which lay in his palm. It was clearly some sort of surveillance device, and one which bore the emblem of the Sound. So Orochimaru _ was_ following them.

Perfect timing.

He turned when he heard his name being called, Kakuzu's voice growing more impatient with each syllable. Stalking back to the house, he stopped for a moment to stash the new piece of evidence in the bottom drawer of the kitchen cabinet, maneuvering his hand so as to hide it from his companion's sight.

Kakuzu regarded him uninterestedly. "What is that?"

"Radishes," he lied easily, unwilling to divulge the information he had gleaned to anyone whom he did not trust. "Why did you want me?"

Sufficiently distracted, Kakuzu began to move towards Konan's room. "I'm about to start the procedure," he explained. "I need a helper."

"Aa." So he had now been given the responsibility of surgical assistant in addition to being the hospital attendant and the chef in charge. Splendid.

Konan was awake when they entered her room, although she continued to maintain her studious silence. Maybe she really _was _too weak to make a sound. It would not be out of the realm of possibility, after the level of deterioration that he had witnessed.

She regarded them warily, practiced eyes gliding over each of their forms with no small amount of suspicion. Even so, he mused, she had no way of actually _defending _herself in case they actually were her enemies. Helpless as she was, she would die before she could even raise an alarm.

Kakuzu coughed, and he took it upon himself to explain the situation to her. "Konan-sama," he began delicately. "Kakuzu says that in order to treat you, he needs to perform a particular surgical procedure."

It is not easy to allow your body to cleave open. As a veteran of hundreds of battles, he was well aware of this fact. The idea of leaving your flesh exposed and vulnerable was repulsive to most shinobi. To know that another's blade had slid through your skin and muscle, had carved a new path in your body, touched your soft inner organs, was frightening, at best, and downright terrifying at worst. As such, he was not surprised when she reacted rather violently, eyes widening, and body twisting as she attempted to get away from them.

He _was _surprised, though, when Kakuzu swiftly walked forward and jabbed her in the neck.

His senses went into overdrive, and he moved forward with blinding speed. The audacity –!

He stilled. In front of him, Konan lay unconscious on the bed, a small black scorch mark adorning her throat. Kakuzu's hand was clutched in his, his fingers tense, waiting to crush, to inflict damage. As he watched her, she shifted in her sleep and muttered incomprehensibly.

Kakuzu disengaged his hand. "She needs to be unconscious for the procedure, unless you're willing to deal with her screams," he informed his colleague coolly, voice detached from the entire situation. As Itachi watched, he began to prepare the materials needed for the procedure, duly cleaning his implements.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked, and his voice was back to normal, the momentary panic now having vacated the premises. Rationality was his shroud, the veil behind which he hid any weaknesses. "How can I assist you?"

Kakuzu waved a gloved hand towards Konan's face. "Keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn't wake. And pass the jar when I ask you to do it."

Then he delved his hand into the smooth, scarred flesh of Konan's abdomen.

Itachi almost winced, the frown tugging at the muscles in his forehead. He witnessed brutality on a daily basis, and had often been the one inflicting it, but somehow, the sight of Kakuzu's hand, cleanly passing through her soft, pale skin, and her lack of responsiveness disturbed him more than he let on. He averted his eyes from the sight, choosing not to look at the blood that now oozed freely from the wound, instead staring at her face.

She was thin. Too thin. She always had been, but he had never deigned to pay much attention. Her vigour and seeming lack of exhaustion had served to never draw it to his notice, either. It was only now, when they resided in such close quarters, had he noticed her frailty. Without chakra in her veins, she was just another, rather vulnerable, village girl. Her illness only served to heighten the impression of fragility.

Her mouth sloped downwards. Unconsciousness was different from sleep. She did not dream, he noticed – her eyes lay still beneath their thin membrane. When she dreamt, she suffered from nightmares. Often, he had observed her twisting, tortured body, although she never let out a sound.

Behind him, Kakuzu was muttering a chant as he extended some of his own chakra into the wound in question. Wiping away the blood, he focused on the twisted mass of internal organs, observing how their inner linings had been destroyed, and how many of them were had severe injuries. Cursing his luck, he began to work towards repairing them.

It was a tiring task. The human body is extremely complex, and any damage requires extensive therapy in order to repair it. Moreover, Konan's damage had been inflicted by chakra, not by simple physical trauma. Chakra wounds were harder to heal, because foreign chakra tended to be harder to remove. Any injuries left by it simply degenerated time and again, and so it required multiple healings.

He strove to contain his chakra. This would be time consuming, and he could not afford to leave the procedure midway because he had run out of chakra. He did not trust the Uchiha's ability to manipulate and modulate his own spiritual blood, and thus, was forced to rely on his skills alone. If he ran out of chakra in the middle of the procedure, then Konan would bleed out to death. If he stitched her up again, then he risked the invasive chakra destroying all of his previous work, and rendering it irrelevant.

The wounds he was working on were beginning to heal. Time and again, the new flesh disintegrated, until finally, soft pink muscles and tissue began to form, stitching over the existing gaps, erasing any deformities. He almost sighed in relief, increasing the chakra flow ever so slightly.

Healers do not treat, unlike doctors or midwives. They do not see a malady, and then prescribe some medicine for the same. No, healers _erased _any signs of the malady having existed in the first place. It was curiously complicated work, leading to what could almost be called spatial-time regression. It was also very, very difficult.

He finished healing the damaged organ, and moved on to the next one. Here, it was clear that the damage was irreparable. The limited skills that he possessed could not regenerate the broken, crumbling walls of the organ. Only renown healers, like the Hokage or like Chiyo of the Sand could have accomplished anything of the sort, and he knew himself well enough to be able to gather that it was beyond his capabilities. This scar, she would carry for life.

He analysed the appearance of the organ. Torn and tattered as it was, it was barely recognizable. There was some evidence of a botched healing, and it appeared fairly recent. It seemed that the Uchiha had tried and failed to heal it.

Only impeccable knowledge of the human anatomy served to make it identifiable. Konan's chakra center was beyond repair. She would live without chakra for the rest of her life.

He would have felt a twinge of pity, but he was far too busy. Time was running out, her blood was flowing too fast. It had a curious colour to it, almost as though it had been contaminated, which was probably exactly what had happened. The rusted smell made him shudder slightly, but he pressed on, relentless in his pursuit of the offending chakra.

_There._

Thick, black, revolting. It looked and felt like tar, and seethed with malice. It was clear that it had deliberately been left behind, with the intent to cause destruction. With a sense of grudging satisfaction, he approached the area, the chakra strings that protruded from his fingers wrapping around the small bundle.

"Pass me the jar," he muttered, and his voice was raspier than ever. Behind him, Itachi startled, but then realized he was being addressed and quietly complied.

Kakuzu grasped the venomous bundle, and extracted it from Konan's body, quickly transferring it into the jar. Now in the outline of the glass container, he could see that the object was unnatural, that it had been engineered. Sneering, he delved his hand back into the open wound, seeking for any more traces of the same.

It was tiring and long work. Many hours passed before Kakuzu finally extracted his hand from the wound for the last time, and then proceeded to seal it shut. By that time, he was running low on chakra, and was fatigued and close to dropping unconscious. Staggering wildly to his feet, he grabbed the jar containing the liquid in his hand, sloppily clutching on to it. Itachi stared at him.

"She'll live," he choked out, stumbling from the room. Chakra deprivation was dangerous, and not something that he particularly wanted to experience when he was so close to the Uchiha.

Itachi turned and glanced one last time at Konan's face. She looked much as he remembered, and there was no sign of improvement. Hesitatingly, he slipped a callous thumb along each of her eyebrows, over her unnaturally still eyes, the bridge of her nose, her dry, cracked lips.

_Don't die on me._

* * *

I did the best I could for this chapter. It's not my finest work, I'll admit. Still, I hope you enjoyed it. :)


	4. Chapter 4

This chapter is way, _way_ overdue.

There's no excuse. I wasn't quite satisfied with the beginning of the chapter, which is why I focussed on reconstructing that part, and, as a result, failed to finish it. I may or may not have multiple copies of this on my computer. And after a while, I just gave up, because I was convinced that I could never finish it. I nearly gave up on this story, dear readers. I have no clue why I decided to revive it.

The plot is moving extremely slowly. This chapter doesn't portray even half of what I had hoped would be accomplished in this. Nevertheless, I assure you that the next few chapters will clear up this part and will see real, true plot development. And character development, too. The setting might remain the same. I'm afraid Itachi and Konan are going to be spending quite a bit of time in their little cabin in the woods.

Enjoy! If you can. I'm fairly sure that nobody remembers this story now, and if they do, they've left it in disgust. Erratic updates and abysmally average writing don't make for the best cocktail, I know. However, _if _by some miracle, there are still a few readers left, I hope you enjoy this chapter, threadbare as it is. :)

* * *

Chapter 4 – Estranged

"_Fate always loses hold, like electric sparks in my heart."_

_ - E. S. T., "White Lies"_

* * *

Her pale fingers were wrapped around the wooden banister, the harsh wood leaving splinters in her callused skin. She leaned heavily against the wall, long hair dark and undone as she swayed faintly, the effort of remaining upright clearly beyond her capabilities. Her feet fumbled for purchase against the rough, uncarpeted floor.

She could not sense him.

It was sad, he mused, when someone who had been accustomed to being hypersensitive had lost that ability. They may as well have been robbed of a limb, or a sense. For a shinobi who could not sense the presence of another, could not feel the light pressure of chakra, may as well be blind.

He stepped out of the shadows, careful to step deliberately so as to make her aware of his presence. In front of him, she stiffened, bent back arching slowly, deliberately, stiffening, worn fingers burrowing still deeper into the wood. She heaved a deep, measured breath. "Konan-sama."

In his hands, he carried her lunch: plain white rice, boiled until it was just a little watery, and a bowl of listless miso soup. An assortment of brightly coloured pills lay beside the shabby meal, their garish colours startling against the staid fare, intended to prevent infection and reduce pain. It was by no means an appealing meal.

She heaved out a sigh as she turned, and he could see the effort that it took her to merely remain on her feet. "You should not be upright," he enunciated slowly. It had barely been a week since her operation.

She conscientiously avoided his eyes, instead choosing to focus her attention on picking on a wayward thread on her sleeve. Briefly, he wondered if her aversion to looking at him was the result of some deep fear of the Mangyekou Sharingan, or if she simply disliked him intensely. He suspected that it was a combination of both.

"It was nothing." Her voice was defiant, firm. She was warning him not to probe the matter further, to refrain from reprimanding her for her carelessness. In effect, she was reminding him of the fact that she was, strictly, technically, his superior.

What a joke. But he was a gentleman; he would not trouble a lady when she wished to keep her secrets, even if she happened to be his de facto ward. "Come, then," he said, eyeing her with masked bewilderment. He balanced the tray on one hand as he grasped her arm with the other, gently steering her towards her bedroom.

Her hand left the banister, and she promptly collapsed, folded in on herself like a house of precariously-balanced cards. He swooped to catch her, the tray crashing to the floor in the process, the porcelain bowl holding the rice cracking and breaking. The miso soup stained the tatami mats at the entrance of the room, seeping quickly into their depths.

He kneeled on the floor, barely holding onto her with both hands. Her entire body sagged, and for a brief moment, he wondered if she had lost consciousness again – but no, there she was, her weak hands pushing against the floor in a futile attempt to push her body up. She was panting heavily, each gasp drawing all the breath the thin air could possibly offer. In his arms, she was as heavy and lifeless as a log of wood.

"Come on," he muttered, trying to draw her up, curving an arm around her torso, but she pushed him away, insistently trying to raise her own, unresponsive body. He felt a brief flare of irritation, and roughly pulled her up, tired of having to wait. Holding her upright with one arm, he stepped into the room, and promptly deposited her body on the messy, unmade bed, noticing with barely-contained frustration that he needed to change the sheets again.

She sat sullenly, untrustworthy legs dangling lifeless below her, refusing to meet his eye. He could feel her silent reprimand, feel the anger that raged beneath her pale skin. She bit her lip until it lost what little colour it did have, her tooth threatening to draw blood.

He would have pinched the bridge of his nose, but he refrained, choosing instead to box away his frustration. With no sound of acknowledgement, he turned and strode away, pausing only to gather up the remnants of the ruined rice and the many pills that lay scattered on the floor like tiny gems. The miso soup would require more effort, energy which he was not prepared to spend right now. Swiftly preparing another meal, he made his way back to her room and placed it on her lap, looming over her.

_Eat. _

It was the most frustrating thing in the world to take care of somebody who does not want to be taken care of. Konan's refusal to comply with his demands resulted not only from a burning shame and anger over the fact that her body was unable to follow the simplest instructions, but also of a deeper apathy. He had seldom seen people with such little interest in themselves. It was as though she had quite consciously chosen to neglect what little spirit she did have left in herself.

Of course, it did not result in some kind of detachment from reality. No, she lurked underneath the surface, tense and angry, ready to lash out at the smallest provocation, and often when no offense was given. It was worse than living with a tiger; it was attempting to _care _for an irritable, injured tiger.

He had no experience with this situation. The last time he had been responsible for another human being had been with Sasuke, and he remembered little of what had transpired then. Konan was ill and injured; he had to help her with every task, take care of her every need, few as they were. It was exhausting, to say the least. Every day felt like another eternity, trapped with the rain pouring outside, isolated from the rest of the world, his only companion a woman whom he would rather avoid. Kakuzu had left a few days ago, and since then, Itachi had had no communication whatsoever from outside, not even from Pain.

He longed to go out, longed to feel the rush in his veins as he fled swiftly from tree to tree, longed to savour the heavy scent of the crushed pine-needles, the aroma of the earth after a fresh bout of light rain. His skin tingled for the sensation of moisture-laden wind, itched for the coolness of rain. His mind craved the cool focus which he cultivated while on a mission. He had not been born to remain inside.

His eyes stared intently at his companion, trying to gauge whether she could eat or not. If she could not balance the delicate chopsticks, if they clattered to the floor, then he would be forced to utilize the extra pair that he carried in his pocket to feed her himself. He fervently wished that the need would not arise; the antipathy that he generally felt from Konan intensified tenfold whenever he attempted to force food down her throat manually.

Her hands trembled as they lifted the first bite, but held, and he heaved a silent sigh of relief, gratitude for small mercies coursing through his blood. She chewed determinedly, swallowed like a bird, and promptly dropped the chopsticks on the tray. The message was clear. _I'm not hungry._

Struggling to control his dismay, he bent down until he was crouching on his knees, looking up at her and forcing her to look into his eyes. In the dim light, she seemed paler and more washed-out than ever, straggly hair hanging in her face, which was slick with sweat. Her lips were parted, eyes dull and listless, but there was a frown on her face. A small grain of rice was stuck on her lower lip, and it hung precariously, quivering with each breath.

He did not need to say it. She knew what indignities lay ahead in case she defied him. Rank or no rank, the situation had warped, leaving them with reversed positions. Neither of them liked it, but it was obvious that she was at his mercy now.

The knowledge of her utter lack of power did not please her, but she complied, sullenly eating until just few grains lay scattered at the bottom of the bowl. This was her tiny rebellion, her little defiance, the only sign that she was unwilling to give into his every demand. He felt a great surge of pity.

* * *

It had been a week.

A long, torturous week. A week since he had become aware of the fact that Orochimaru was watching them. His little parrot still lay in the kitchen drawer in which it had been ingloriously dropped, the wings crushed and the neck twisted. He had taken it apart and attempted to study it, to glean what little knowledge he could from its construction. His efforts had been in vain. He may have been brilliant, but he was no Sasori, who's mind seemed to have been made for the delicate complexities of fine engineering. The mechanical construction of the bird had been too complex for him to replicate, and the damage performed by him had been too severe for an amateur like him to undo it. The bird was, for all purposes, not in working order. He had been relieved to see that it consisted of only a recorder, and did not carry any explosives. He did not have enough energy or time to break through Orochimaru's fire seals.

Still. He knew a few facts. Orochimaru where they were, or at least, he suspected. Had he sent his little tools to follow Konan as she crashed blindly through the undergrowth, holding her guts in with one hand? Or had he simply been making a general sweep of the area, trying to discover her exact location? Did he know that she was alive? Or was he merely searching for her body?

There was a high probability that Orochimaru did _not_, in fact, know where they were. His little implement had only carried a recorder, implying that he was merely scanning the area. On the other hand, he could have already located their position, and was now merely generally surveying the area in order to plan how to mount the best offensive. Or perhaps he had noticed that one of his recorders had been missing, and was now able to pinpoint their position.

He gnashed his teeth in frustration. The Snake liked to play games like this, with hundreds of subtle layers, revealing one after the other with great delight. No matter how deep you delved, traps still awaited you. Itachi wasn't completely straightforward, but he did believe in a clear fight, where both opponents faced each other and utilized whatever was on their hands at the moment. This kind of cloak-and-dagger game did not appeal to him. Was Orochimaru deliberately trying to frustrate him, causing him to lose his concentration? Or was he overestimating, and was Orochimaru really only baiting Konan?

He closed his eyes, taking breaths slowly and calmly, attempting to sort out the mess that was his mind. Orochimaru had clearly played a big part in Konan's mauling, although she had yet to tell him the details of what had happened that fateful day. On the one occasion that he had carefully brought it up, she had clammed up, sealing her lips against his questions. It was clear that he would not be the recipient of any sensitive information. That honour, if bestowed at all, belonged to Pain.

And until Pain knew, he could not move. Because Pain had ordered him to stay here and guard his partner, to take care of her and nurse her back to health. And after that, to accompany her back to headquarters.

'_Don't let them kill her.'_

He couldn't pursue Orochimaru unless Pain gave him clearance, or at the very least, relieved him from his obligation to Konan. Pain knew that Orochimaru had been the culprit, and yet he had not given Itachi leave to track him. Perhaps he had taken the matters into his own hands, or maybe delegated it to another member of the Akatsuki. In any case, Itachi was clearly not to be the one who pursued the Snake sannin.

He was not a petty man, but he did resent this. Pain did not actually know the full depth of history between the two former Konoha nin, but the antipathy between them could not be mistaken for anything but what it was. Moreover, Pain was perceptive. He recognized more than what was let on, and far more than what could be revealed to even the experienced eye. The man seemed to be omnipresent. He would not be surprised if Leader had not surmised most of what lay between Itachi and Orochimaru. Despite that, he had deliberately ensured that Itachi could not encounter the man, had trapped him in a caretaking role he knew that the latter was not suited for. Itachi should have been relieved by Kakuzu.

Resentment did not, however, flavor his decisions. He had not spent most of his life as a shinobi without learning not to let personal feelings change the course of any mission. He needed the Akatsuki, and as such he was bound to obey what was basically their only rule: obey Leader. Nevertheless, that did not mean that he had to divulge all of his secrets. And so, he had secreted away his little bird in a desk drawer rather than entrusting it to Kakuzu. Part of it was because he did not trust the medical ninja. But mostly, it was so that he could conduct his own investigation in secret.

An investigation that seemed to be doomed to end in failure. He had reached the limits of his capabilities, and now there was nothing left to be done. He could not physically track the area for other evidence of Orochimaru's presence without leaving Konan, and then she would be in danger. Weak as she was, even a common thief could slit her throat with one fluid motion. The best that he could do was sit here and prepare for an attack that he was sure would come, sooner or later.

* * *

Invalidness was infuriating.

Invalidness was challenging. It was frustrating, confusing, unbearable, physically demanding. It was weakness, plain and simple. And she hated weakness. She hated the sensation of not being good enough.

But most of all, invalidness was _humiliating._

Abandonment was what she felt every morning when she woke up, and abandonment was what she breathed in every night when she slipped off to her own little land of horrors. Pain had abandoned her. All those promises about togetherness and conquering the world side by side, and Pain had _abandoned _her. She had devoted her life to his cause (_Yahiko's cause_, her traitorous mind whispered), and now that she had lost it, he had simply lost interest in her. She was no longer an object of concern, no longer even a tool that he could move around the vast chess board he commanded. Now she was merely another burden.

She missed being a tool.

The dark fabric of her hair swung in front of her thin, wasted face as she poured it over her body. After weeks spent in delirium, she was hungry to open her eyes, hungry to drink in the world around her. But every time she did, she was only confronted with her own nothingness. She was utterly, completely, _nothing._

A burden.

She had dedicated her life to others. She had learnt how to fight even though her hands bled and her body felt weak and sick and sore. She had learnt how to kill because she needed to take life to be useful. She had learned how to defend because she needed to protect those who were precious to her.

And now, everything was gone in a heartbeat.

_If there is a god,_ she wondered in her despair, _why did he not kill me?_

Because, at least in her death, she could have been useful. Pain could have inhabited her body, could have used her arms and her legs, her lungs and her trickery with paper, all to his benefit. She had been powerful, once – he could have used that power, the power which she had cultivated in order to defend and protect him.

When she had been dying, she had hoped that he would bury her after her death. That he would garland her in the flowers that they picked together, a long time ago, that he would brush his hands over her forehead, her eyes, her lips. That he would pick her up and set her adrift on a river. That he would weep for her, for the friend that he had lost forever.

They had been fantasies, the fantasies of an innocent little child. She had been dying, and she had allowed herself a moment of indulgence, allowed herself to believe what did not exist. Because the person she wanted to cry over her grave wasn't Pain. It was Nagato. And Nagato was dead.

If she had died, Pain would have inhabited her body. As it was, she was not dead. She was alive, her lungs and liver and heart working to make her body struggle through another day. No, instead she was trapped in a fate worse than death. She was useless.

What use did Pain have of a worthless body that could not fight? What use did Pain have of abilities that had disappeared when a part of her soul had been ripped out of her body? Instead of being a pillar of support, she had become another troublesome mouth to feed, another one of his subjects to be looked after. Perhaps she would even receive extra protection. Pain was vested in her interest, in her physical comfort and care, because of a promise that a boy had made long ago. The boy was dead, but his promise stayed. She was to be looked after.

The boy would have clutched her hand and stayed beside her bedside if he had been alive today. But the greatest fates consume their instruments, and Nagato had learned this the hard way. Nagato's body remained, but the soul which had resided within had fled, hatred and grief paving the way for the hardness that later became Pain.

And Pain had abandoned her.

Oh, she was well-looked after, that was true. She did not lack in any creature comfort. Food, a warm bed, water. She should have been, for all intents and purposes, happy. Or, failing that, she should not have been _unhappy. _She had no reason to be.

But Pain had abandoned her, had left her at the mercy of the Uchiha. The Sharingan-wearer was conscientious, but he was still a stranger, for all of their proximity for years. And yet, he fed her, he clothed her, he washed her. She was dependent on him for everything, from eating to something as small as easing the tangles out of her rough hair. Her survival depended on what effectively amounted to his benevolence. And she did not trust him.

She trusted nobody except for Pain, and she did not trust Pain at all. Nevertheless, the bonds of childhood remain, and she had hoped that Nagato retained enough influence, enough of his humanity, to ensure that that what once belonged to him stayed with her. Or, failing that – his health was precarious, and his safety would be at risk here – that he would send Deva here. Then she could have them both, both her boys.

Deva came. And then he left. Instead, she was left only with the Uchiha and with the taste of rising bile. Her body felt as though it was made of ashes, flaky, and about to come apart. She would crumble any second now, the little bits of her drifting apart, until nothing but soot was left, and the Uchiha would sigh and sweep it up and throw it out with the potato peels and the egg shells.

Intellectually, she could not resent Pain. She was now a liability, and it made no sense for anyone to devote such resources to her. Kakuzu's diagnosis had been clear. She would never be a shinobi again. She was, once and for all, robbed of what had simultaneously made her and ruined her. She was now simply another one of Pain's subjects, one who he was bound to protect, but only most arbitrarily. The matters of tiny mortals did not concern him. He had a bigger game to play.

And yet. He had assigned the Uchiha to him. Tactically, it was a waste of resources, and yet Pain was bound by a promise. She had to stay alive, he had said. And Pain had complied.

If only it had been enough.


End file.
